


Your daily dose

by withered



Series: Who's been lovin' you good? [67]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Affection, Coping mechanism, M/M, Pet Names, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve critical, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withered/pseuds/withered
Summary: Bucky does not like being touched. Or so Steve says.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Series: Who's been lovin' you good? [67]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/918138
Comments: 131
Kudos: 1338
Collections: marvel fics that are marvelous





	Your daily dose

**Author's Note:**

> SO, I actually did finish writing this earlier in the day with the hope that I could post it before the end of 2020, alas, I was writing on my notepad app and well. Mistakes were made. FORTUNATELY. According to ao3's post-date, I'm still in 2020 (is this a punishment, who knows), so I guess I still hit my target?

Bucky does not like being touched. Or so Steve says. 

It isn't a surprising conclusion to make when all that Bucky has been for the past seventy-odd years is a study in instinct. For a long while, Bucky didn't even speak. Didn't have to when violence was all that was ever asked of him, and all he'd been able to give in return. Either way, Bucky assumes it's true that he doesn't like to be touched because no one knows him better than Steve. Not even Bucky.

But it wouldn't be a surprise to him if it was the case, anyway.

Bucky can't recall the last time someone touched him without the intention to hurt, and without him hurting back.

It's equal parts self-preservation and common sense. His memories of who Bucky actually is is limited to Steve's golden nostalgia, and his memories of the Winter Soldier, nothing more than whispered ghost stories. Either way, he's as broken as they come; whoever he is made up of, the fractured recollections of Soviet mission briefs or American propaganda or some mutation of the two, does not a person make. But Bucky hasn't been a person for a long time so he doesn't know if he doesn't like to be touched. Not really. It's just easier to go along with it. To make an impassive impression when someone accidentally brushes by him and immediately flinching away; contrite, terrified. It's easy to do with a face like his; a reputation, a warning label.

He wouldn't have known differently, wouldn't have thought to question it if it hadn't been for Tony.

Tony, who has every reason to take his presence, let alone the suggestion of physical contact, with near primal fear. No one normal would blame him for it, knowing the extent of Bucky's influence in Tony's life.

Not that Tony knew what normal was, though.

In fact, after the Rogues' relocation to the Compound, it took a month for Tony to get tired of his body's reflexive response of flight or freeze around Bucky that Tony declared, "Fuck it." 

Bucky wouldn't have blamed Tony if he decided never to be in the same room as Bucky again. Actually, Bucky wouldn't have been shocked if Tony had told him to leave, the Titan's arrival be damned, despite Steve's attempts to assure him that they wouldn't let that happen while Sam shook his head with a deadpan expression, adamant that he wasn't going to get involved in Bucky's inability to not suck as a person.  


But Tony wasn't done. He'd come around again -- the same room, the same space as Bucky. He'd get near -- close enough for Bucky to smell his cologne, to feel his body heat. And Tony would do what no one else did -- he tried. 

Bucky's curious look earned him Tony's thinly veiled amusement. "Think of it as exposure therapy."  


At first, it was nothing but being in each other's presence, eventually it was a greeting, an exchange of pleasantries, conversation, and. 

Then, it was touching.

It started with an accidental brush of their fingers when they both reached for the same mug, on a too-late-to-be-evening and too-early-to-be-morning run-in that was regular enough between them though they never did anything about to change.

Bucky, insomniac ridden, was at his exhaustive peak and had been running on fumes (and caffeine) for several days. His edges dulled. He didn't know if the mug was his or Tony's. While Tony, sleep deprived and pulled in every direction by his various and extensive responsibilities over what is likely, an equal number of days, couldn't say either. Not that there was much to be said in that moment.

Their fingers overlapped. Cool digits warming against the other until eventually they were both just. Warm, and as solid against the other as the porcelain mug they'd both reached for.

And maybe it was the liminal space of twilight and dawn, or being in the kitchen in the part of the Compound that no one ever went to but them, or the fact that they were the two people in the entire building who, by silent agreement and opposing arguments, shouldn't be alone together but were anyway because it really wasn't the end of the world. Not even when touching, accidental as it was, felt like a shift in the earth; a precipice of sorts.

Neither of them moved, like they were frozen. Like even blinking was enough to shatter the moment.

As the seconds ticked by, Bucky realized it had been the longest he'd touched someone that didn't lead to violence, and it was. Different, but. Nice. It was nice.

Bucky flushed, and blinked first.

Tony, running on dial-up speed, stared sluggishly down at their touching hands before slowly he lifted his chin to meet Bucky's eyes all while Bucky waited with baited breath for the inevitable: the panic, the recoil, the withdrawal.

None came.

Tony's attention shifted back to their hands and then back to Bucky's face before he muttered, "Huh." 

Bucky let go of the mug first, fingers bumping, wrists colliding. Tony followed the abrupt movements with increasing awareness, a sharpening focus in his sleepy brown eyes that startlingly, reminded Bucky of a sunrise. Tony's expression was openly curious when they landed on Bucky's face again.

Suddenly hot from his ears to his chest, Bucky mumbled his apologies, but couldn't bring it in him to escape, snared as he was by Tony's unblinking scrutiny.

Out of nowhere, though, Tony asked, "Was this yours or mine?"

Lost, Bucky only realized after several awkward beats of silence that Tony meant the mug.

He answered with a jerky shrug, ears still flush, cheeks still warm, all things Tony seemed to be taking into account, mentally cataloguing to turn over and study later. The thought does nothing to soothe the squirming in Bucky's belly, the fluttering in his lungs.

The feeling didn't stop when Tony nodded, grabbed another mug and proceeded to make them both warm milk. Catching Bucky's baffled expression, Tony explained, "If your reaction to someone touching you at ass o'clock in the morning is to do an impressive impression of Bambi, you're clearly too tired for coffee." 

Sulkily, Bucky responded, "I'm not a child." Then, grabbing the honey pot on the counter and adding a spoonful to their mugs before Tony can throw in a vat of sugar, Bucky added, "Honey is better for you." Tony stared, and even more embarrassed in the moment as he was after it, Bucky tacked on dumbly to explain, "Sugar." Like a fool. A foolish fool who couldn't speak in full sentences to explain that sugar is bad especially in the quantities that Tony consumes it at.

With a doleful blink, Tony's smile came crooked and heart-stopping. "Whatever you say, honey."

From then on, contact became an experiment of sorts; exposure therapy. For both of them.  


The nicknames Tony throws in like an inside joke that always works to make Bucky blush and Tony grin, giddy and mischievous because, "It's good to know I've got that effect on you, hon."

After, it's just a brush of the fingers, but it's enough to make Bucky's breath stutter, for his eyes to seek Tony's. And then, satisfied that Bucky's responses weren't negative, Tony moved on to gentle nudges on the shoulder. They are careless and calculated and careful in ways that said that Tony was aware it wasn't just him involved, that Bucky wasn't just an extension of him -- a phantom limb he could poke and prod and command. That silently said, and committed to stopping entirely if Bucky had given away even a hint of his discomfort.

(Bucky's still mad at Barton for walking in and making him tense up when Tony had leaned a little longer against his shoulder than usual, Tony hadn't repeated that prolonged contact again since.)

It was a consideration that Bucky wasn't afforded by Steve, a conclusion Tony seemed to have made after Steve tried to force contact of his own: "A hug," Steve said, before raising his hands in defence. "You've been letting Tony touch you so I thought -"

Bucky had felt. Weird about it. As he generally does around Steve; Steve's needs and wants and ideas which he has no problem impressing on Bucky whenever the opportunity presents itself. More often than not, Bucky feels less like a person and more like something of Steve's, a thing Steve just owns. Not in any obvious ways, but the entitlement is there. The claim. When Bucky thinks of Steve: touching Steve, or Steve touching him, he remembers the scientists, the handlers. Poking and prodding and take-take- _taking_ even when Bucky growled and snarled and told them _no_. At least Steve wasn't touching him anymore, wasn't going to try anymore, hopefully, but. Tony had seen. 

Tony watched him act like some kind of animal, body vibrating and tense; thrumming to fight and break and _hurt_ in a way that was familiar but -- but. 

Bucky can feel Tony nearby -- the other man's fingers suspended -- almost, but not yet, reaching to touch, to hold. But not yet. And perhaps, not ever again. 

_You're scaring him_ , a voice at the back of Bucky's head disapproves, and Bucky huffs out a breath, making him tense up more in his confusion and insecurity -- he doesn't want -- he doesn't know how to say that _no, he doesn't like being touched, but Tony can -- he won't hurt Tony because Tony won't hurt him,_ so, instead, Bucky grunts and closes the scant bit of distance between him , and the arm he was in the middle of reaching for. It's a short fall, but Tony catches him.

The contact is confident, comfortable. Tony's fingers grasp and hold, and soothes just as his voice does as he tells Bucky gently as he leads him away, "It's alright, hon, everything's all right. I got you."

He knows. Because Tony is there. Tony's got him.

His hand eventually slides down from Bucky's arm to his hand, shoulders still touching, knuckles still brushing. By the time they reach the workshop, Bucky's calmed down, and Tony's touch goes lighter until, the contact grows less and less until finally Tony isn't touching him at all. And that. That is not what Bucky wants.

His face must be doing something because eventually Tony asks, "Honey, you alright?"

Bucky frowns because _yes, he is,_ and _no, he isn't._

"Okay," Tony drawls, blatantly unconvinced. Then, "You know, I was worried about you." 

"I wasn't going to hurt him," Bucky is quick to defend, and at Tony's raised brow, Bucky deadpans, "You have a rule against bleeding in the common areas."

At that, Tony chortles. "Yeah, okay." Then, "But I didn't mean that. Well, not entirely." Almost out of nowhere, "I read that humans need touch. It's a basic _thing_. There's a daily requirement and everything, dosages, you know. And with all the trauma you've been through, and the," Tony gestures vaguely at his own head like that'll encompass the vast amount of bullshit Bucky's dealt with for a large portion of his existence, "well, _you know_. I was worried, that's all."

"What?" Bucky snorts. "That I'm not getting my daily dose of physical contact?"

"It's good for mental health," Tony defends with a smirk. With a wiggle of his brows, he prompts, "You telling me you haven't been feeling mentally better since, hon?"

"So, you're touching me purely for that?" Bucky asks and he's not sure what disappointment is _supposed_ to feel like, but it might be this. 

Fortunately, Tony splutters, indignant. "Of course not." And, "Besides, if I'd allocated myself the role of keeping you mentally well I'm doing a terrible job. You need like six hugs or something a day. Or ten meaningful touches. In which case, considering your response to Rogers, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you're still under average."

Bucky inclines his head in acceptance. "Probably for the best, too much contact, I'd guess it'll be like overwatering a plant."

Absent-minded, Tony nods his agreement, pauses, and meets Bucky's eyes with a narrowing of his own. "But you aren't a plant."

Amused, "No, I guess I'm not."

With a glint in his eye, Tony mutters, "Huh."

From that point on it's a study in escalation, in touch, as often as they can manage it because -- "What's the point of an experiment if we don't know the thresholds! Don't worry, sweetpea, I'll go easy on you." -- and it wouldn't have been a problem had Bucky not been a touched deprived fool who gets attached to the guy giving him his "daily dose" as Tony calls it.

Bucky wonders, vaguely, if it's a new thing for him to be attracted to a man, before he dismisses it as the least of his problems because Tony is. Everywhere.  


It's their fingers intertwined when they're watching whatever Bucky is into at the moment, or whatever it is Tony deems a Necessity. It's Tony reaching out to touch Bucky's hand, his arm, his shoulder to get his attention -- to let him know that Tony is there if he needs him. Tony even learns morose code. and chooses to communicate with Bucky that way when there are other people around citing it as "killing two birds with one stone -- you get your dose, and I get someone to judge other people with. It's a win-win, puddin'!" It becomes a regular thing for Tony to tap out messages somewhere on Bucky's body, from sharp observations to whatever earworm is bugging him that day, 

It's Tony navigating around Bucky's presence as easily as if Bucky had always been there; steering him gently with a hand between his shoulder blades, the small of his back, his hip. A steady presence, a friendly face and a kind touch.

It's Tony missing Bucky's shoulder once, and touching his hair, and Bucky making this Sound that is so awful and embarrassing that Tony _stops_ touching him. The resulting noise Bucky makes is genuinely shameful, but with a mischievous grin, Tony goes, "Huh." and gets right back to it with all the "who, me?" innocence that Bucky is reluctantly charmed by.  


All of this, Bucky could've lived with, happily never asking for more because -- he can't even _ask_ to be touched, let alone anything else beyond it -- except eventually, the rest of the world intrudes.  


Meetings, and mission briefs and training pulls them apart until the touches become fleeting and eventually die down all together.  


Bucky tries not to be resentful of it. He doesn't _own_ Tony, nor does he have a claim on Tony's time, attention or affection. Tony's never asked him for anything in return for it, and Bucky isn't going to be ungrateful. He won't.

Even if Tony wouldn't mind the vague plan Bucky conjures up about completing his mission early, finding Tony (and possibly saving him from a truly stupid kidnapping attempt) and hiding them both away because if there's one thing Bucky's learned about touch besides the fact that he doesn't like it from others, is that he doesn't like it when other people are touching Tony either, but that's a story for another day. This story, however, ends where it began: On a too-late-to-be-evening and too-early-to-be-morning run-in, hands reaching for the same mug.  


Tony's not even supposed to be here. He's supposed to be at a conference on the other side of the world, and Bucky's supposed to be on recon except Barton had said some things and Choices were made that led to Bucky getting benched. He doesn't regret it. Nonetheless, they're both here, right back where it all, arguably, started, and Tony isn't. Tony isn't looking at him.

When Bucky focuses on the mug, their fingers interlaced around it, he notices that Tony's hands are shaking.  


"Sweetheart," Bucky begins, softly, "you been putting too much sugar while you were away?"

Tony sucks in a breath, his voice hoarse, "Actually, hon, I think I'm having a panic attack."

Bucky almost recoils in surprise except Tony is squeezing his fingers like it's the only lifeline he has. "Can I...can I do anything? Tell me what you need, sugar."  


And at that Tony finally meets his eyes, and oh, god. His gaze is glassy, blinking rapidly to dissipate the tears gathered at his lashes even as some have already left trails down his cheeks. His body is a line of earthquakes beneath his skin, like something trying to break through from the inside and tear Tony apart, and Bucky makes a noise, wounded, sympathetic, and reaches for him.  


He doesn't know where the co-ordination and knowledge came from to set aside the mug they're still both clasping between them, and pull Tony into his arms but. It feels good. It feels alright. Even when Tony shudders, and soon after, falls apart right there in the kitchen, right there in Bucky's arms.

Bucky squeezes him tighter as if that'll be enough to pull Tony back together, and he would have hesitated when he hears the subtle squeak of Tony's bones beneath his hands, but Tony only grasps on tighter, like maybe he will fall apart without Bucky there. Like he hasn't already.  


"I got you, sweetheart, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere," Bucky rambles, and it's the most coherent thing he can voice around the complicated influx of emotions that wars in his chest. That wants nothing more than to protect Tony, and wants nothing more than to tear whoever is the cause of his pain apart.  


But Tony keeps him steady, keeps him here, and eventually the murderous rage subsides and all Bucky is thinking is why they haven't hugged sooner.  


Minutes or hours later, Bucky can't tell, Tony's breathing returns to normal, his trembling subsiding, but he doesn't let go, Bucky doesn't either.

With a thoughtless press of lips against Tony's hair, the pair of them essentially swaying on their feet against the other, Bucky has the distant thought that it's the first time he's been the first to reach out. There is no phantom call of violence in the contact itself, no instinctual pull to damage and hurt.  


And Tony. Tony isn't afraid.

He nuzzles Bucky's shoulder, where the metal arm sits, and sighs like he's relieved, like he's glad it was Bucky that found him, that held him close. But as if remembering himself, he stiffens in Bucky's arms, withdraws -- not nearly far enough when Bucky's just growing used to the weight of warmth of him so near -- and looks at Bucky.

Bucky feels a part of him freeze and wither when he registers panic in Tony's expression, but. 

There's also a blush high on his cheeks, a flutter of his hands that touch Bucky's chest, his biceps, and a gaze that tries to avoid Bucky's eyes as Tony says a little too sincerely to pass as a tease, "For a guy who doesn't do PDA, you give great hugs."

And there's something there. Something. Bucky is missing.

He's still holding onto Tony as he considers that, Tony going redder in his arms and rambling, "Not that I didn't think you wouldn't give good hugs, I mean, have you seen your _everything_? Of course, you give good hugs. I should know, I've had Rhodey's hugs. But yours are A+, really great, 10/10 would hug again if you were wondering." Then, "I thought I'd have to teach you that, you know, how to ask for it and like, touch other people when you wanted to. But you -- you're doing great. Were you getting your dose without me? You can tell me, I promise I'm not the jealous type --"

"Wasn't touching anyone else," Bucky interrupts, and says as an afterthought, "don't want anyone else to."

Almost by accident, Tony's eyes meet his and impossibly, that blush of color on Tony's cheeks burn brighter. "Oh."

Bucky's lips pull into a smile. Huh.

**Author's Note:**

> IT HAS BEEN A LIFETIME. 
> 
> (It's been a few weeks, it feels longer, let me have my moment) 
> 
> But I bring you soft bois to welcome in the new year. I still have a TON of tumblr prompts to get to -- AND I WILL, I SWEAR IT -- but like, life, y'know? I'm doing my best. 
> 
> Anyway, happy new year, make safe choices.


End file.
